Lead and Follow(16)

Oh God.

Her guts lurched on another hard rush.

Dima propped his weight on his elbows and knees. Before he dipped to taste her once again, he breathed against her inner thigh. “Suck me, little one,” he whispered there. “I want you to taste me too.”

Inside her, something tight and scared broke free. All the preparation fell away. All the nerves. Never once had she backed away from a challenge, especially not one that stood to produce a fantastic reward.

She drew her fingertips up Dima’s stomach, tracing each glorious ridge of muscle as they jumped beneath her touch. Another heady rush of power. Of need.

His mouth closed over her pussy just as she reached for his cock. Heat shot over her nerves like a bomb going off. She grabbed his thick, hard flesh in both hands, grounding herself in the buck of his hips. They would drive each other both mad, and they’d do it together.

The head of his prick was swollen and so smooth. She licked until that tender skin was slippery. No friction when she took him into her mouth. Dima’s low groan reverberated against her clit. That slight sensation was nothing compared to the quick pulse of his tongue. With a strong grip, he arched her pelvis, opening her more fully to his attention.

Lizzie bent her knees and planted her feet. The dampness along her soles stuck to the cool hardwood. She reached around his hips and grabbed his ass, just as he did hers. Firm muscle clenched beneath her palms as he gently thrust. Melting into the pillow, she let the sinful pleasure ease away the last of her tension.

Her jaw relaxed. She opened fully.

Dima sank his cock all the way to the back of her throat.

Christ, he was big. She tongued every lovely ridge along his shaft, in and out, as he fucked her mouth—and fucked her with his mouth. His tongue was more aggressive now, pulsing and flicking at her electric nerves. He used long fingers to open her folds even wider.

Lizzie sucked on the tip of his cock. Sucked hard. His ass tensed beneath her hands, trying to find that pulse again. She absorbed the sweetness of knowing she could make his body beg with just the hard pressure of her lips. Then she opened again, letting him in deep. He drove down. That sudden feeling of being trapped beneath his thrust jacked her arousal. She raised her hips, seeking an end to the sweet agony that built and built.

So good. She’d never imagined…

He lifted his mouth and bit the inside of her thigh. Just a nibble at first, followed by more pressure. A long, slow bite made her squeal, but that sound was muffled by his thrust. On the next withdrawal, Lizzie let him slide out. His teeth tightened, maybe as punishment. Her nerves bellowed a protest, while her pussy slicked with wetness.

She sucked her fingers instead of his dick, liberally coating her skin with saliva. That done, she let him back in. The satisfaction of being taken was so much stronger in that position. No way to disconnect. Mind and body joined until all she knew and all she thought was need. Dima needed to come and so did she.

With her wet forefingers, she found the pucker of his anus. He was tight but not unwelcoming as she slid inside. He moaned, hips tensing. The falter in his rhythm—from a man who could tap a steady beat in his sleep—was a victory. Lizzie pushed even farther, a gentle in-and-out to counter his gathering frenzy.

He was close. His precome was salty and sharp as she lapped it away. His respiration matched hers. Nearly frantic. She breathed through her nose as he found his rhythm, paired it with the beat of his tongue on her clit. Two fingers, maybe three, slipped inside her pussy. They were in each other, around, entwined, connected at such an intimate level, where all she knew was his sound and feel and taste. Even the air she dragged into her lungs was touched by his musk, his sweat.

Dima rubbed his chin against her inner folds. The sharpness of his evening stubble was nearly pain, but he kept with it, abrading that slick, tender skin, until Lizzie squirmed. Rough hands clutched her hips and kept her immobilized. No number of struggles bucked his fierce hold.

The scratch of his stubble triggered a hot, long-buried memory. It was the first time she’d seen Dima shave. Maybe nineteen at the time, he’d come home from some one-night stand, when they shared their first apartment in Soho—a shitty dive that always smelled of rotten apples. She’d stood in the doorway of the bathroom, berating him for making them both late for practice. Calmly, still wearing that cat-in-the-cream smirk, he’d shaved, never arguing back.

She’d been struck by the urge to be his again. Just one more time. One good time. To be the sort of lover who could shape his satisfied smile in the mirror as he shaved. Their one attempt at mixing professional demands with personal desires had been so mortifying that she’d turned away, leaving him alone in the bathroom.